Short Enterprise Vignettes
by Belen09
Summary: Okay, just some little ideas I had - no particular themes . . . not 'big enough' for full blown stories . . . Rated 'T' just in case . . .
1. Chapter 1

SEV #1

Commander Trip Tucker walked into the crew lavatory located two decks away from the Mess Hall where the Arconians were being feted; he'd gone down an access tube, and was pretty sure that none of the visitors had followed. At least he hoped that none of the purple and blue skinned aliens had followed him.

Normally he liked a party – greeting new people – getting to be friendly and telling an audience all about the planet Earth, and how the Enterprise was 'out exploring'. But this crowd of people was 'too much' – fawning even, almost bowing at every word he said . . . laughing in that high squeaky noise at anything even mildly funny that he said . . . pushing and shoving each other in order to get within speaking distance. It was creepy, and he had no idea why he was so 'interestin''.

The Capt'n didn't seem to have that problem – sure some of the elder officials were politely hanging around, but no one was actively trying to be 'best friends'. No one – absolutely no one – was hanging around sub-Commander T'Pol. Point of fact, they were trying to avoid her . . . he seemed to be the lucky bastard that everyone had to get to know.

He'd even gone so far as to hide in one of the stalls – not wanting to have to talk with anyone, even his fellow crewmates. This was impossible; Trip decided that he had to get his head together and return to the party. At least that was what he was thinking as the door to the restroom opened.

At this point most everyone he knew would have said something like, 'You in there, Trip?' or maybe – 'You in there, Commander?' Not exactly the most polite thing, but what do you say to someone hiding out in the john? Then he heard the person washing their hands. He dared to hope that a certain British person might be there, so he said very tentatively, "Malcolm?"

"Commander," the voice said evenly, a couple seconds went by. "I take it that you found the attention of our guests a bit overwhelming . . ." Trip laughed nervously, "Overwhelming!" He opened the door, and found Malcolm Reed regarding him with a smile. "You'd think I was the person that everyone HAD to meet. Maybe they think I'm a famous person or somethin'. Hell, they were fightin' just to get close!" Trip shrugged his shoulders, expecting that his friend would find his problem 'amusing'; instead, the lieutenant frowned, "I don't know why I bother writing security reports! Did you read any of the material I sent you?" Malcolm pulled out a tablet from his pocket, and typed some text, then sent it.

"There," he said with the air of someone taking care of a problem – both finally, and of being exasperated – "You shouldn't have any problem from now on. Oh, and you need to change . . . wear your most worn daily uniform, with visible grease stains and some hand tools sticking out of your pockets. Pretend that you have been working on some 'engineering' problem at the behest of the captain."

"What?" replied Trip, "I don't understand." "Next time I send you a security report about a new planet – read it! You can't just depend on your charm and good looks, commander," and with that the armory officer strode out of the small room and prepared to meet the aliens as their 'new best friend'.

OOOOOO

Commander Tucker made it into the Mess Hall expecting the mass of aliens to be still in attendance; while there still were a few almost decrepit-looking types still politely listening to Captain Archer (and ignoring sub-Commander T'Pol), the main group who had been following him around were nowhere to be seen. And now these Arconians were totally ignoring him also, like a switch had been thrown or somethin'. It was just odd.

"Uh, sub-Commander," he started to say since she was not talking to anyone, "where did everyone go?" "I believe," she replied, looking oddly bored and grateful at the same time, "that they are in Cargo Bay Two watching Lieutenant Reed conducting an armory drill." With that she turned her head back in the direction of Captain Archer, clearly having finished speaking with Trip, who exited the Mess Hall and made his way over to the cargo bay. Malcolm generally wasn't in the habit of ordering him around, but when he did – well, he had to find out what was going on . . .

Trip missed the subtle signal that Jonathan Archer gave T'Pol; made reference to her PADD that she carried – said in Vulcan, 'Reed had a good point about reading security reports', or words to that effect. The Arconian officials left in the Mess Hall were of little consequence . . .

OOOOOO

Several months before, Trip had helped Malcolm and a couple of his staff set up a practice range so that the security personnel could maintain their proficiency with small arms, generally phase pistols and rifles, though it could be used with small projectile armaments. (Reed had a few of the older style weapons – more of a hobby – but occasionally useful in special circumstances – after all, torpedoes were projectiles albeit of a very large 'caliber'.)

Trip entered the cargo bay with nary a glance from the assembled aliens; all their eyes were fixed in fact, not on the armory personnel who were even in the midst of training, noticing that he had entered the area, but rather on the form of the solitary Brit who was merely directing the exercise and not even participating. The fawning behavior of the Arconians was extreme to the point of almost nauseating. 'What the hell was going on?' thought the commander, pretending to work on some such mechanical device 'off to the side'.

There had been a 'sexist element' to the Arconians' behavior – that Trip could tell given that T'Pol had been totally ignored as if she didn't matter . . . and an elitist also – once he had 'dressed down' as it were – as though he were merely a functionary – an engineer who ran the ship, he didn't count either. But the Capt'n apparently didn't count much to their eyes as well. He was currently being bored to death by 'honored elders', trying to set up diplomatic relations . . .

So what was it? Tucker decided that he'd had enough of mysterious aliens and since he was dressed to pretend he was 'engineering', decided to leave and do some of the real version. Leaving the cargo bay, he brought out a PADD which had his current work list and determined to get something accomplished. No doubt later Malcolm would be more than happy to explain what happened . . .

OOOOOO

It finally dawned on him as he was trying to 'suss out' a tangle of wires that had been installed by some contractors at a repair facility, not Starfleet affiliated – rather than color-coding they used patterns on the similarly colored tubing. Normally the plain wiring carried the most current, and one stripe indicated a 'step-down', but if you wiped the casing with a particular chemical it would remove the stripe, indicating that the current had been increased. So the one stripe type had the 'potential for being more powerful' and actually potentiality made that more important – in effect Malcolm had 'potential power' as did formerly he did – at least obviously before . . . the captain had 'reached' the limit of his power in the Arconians' minds.

All depended on what was more important – what was, or what could be . . .

OOOOOO


	2. Chapter 2

It Was You

The old man watched as the small child slept, comforted by the 'Peter Cottontail' that he had fashioned from the pelts of the small creatures that formed the main part of their protein diet. It was never enough, but he had promised her mother that he would keep her 'safe'. (Alternate Expanse Series)

OOOOO

The 'spells' as he called them had been getting more and more frequent, periods of time where he knew that he could not remember who he was and why he was sitting in this small shelter, huddled by a fire. They frightened him as he remembered a time when it could be said that he was probably one of the most intelligent people, whether at school, in the service, or even in his family. (He thought of the last in particular as his grandmother was prone to be rather proud of her second cousin, a famous politician of considerable brilliance; he was a master of strategy and managed to stay in the highest levels of government for over twenty-five years. The man was older than he was now, but then stress was 'a killer', and he doubted if even that example of virtue would have fared better. Not having any medical assistance for over thirty years meant that he had been lucky to stay alive this long.)

They would generally 'hit' when he had awoken from sleep, bone and muscle sore, lying on his rough sleeping mat, and he would sit up still entranced from a dream – a nightmare really – where he had had friends who he had loved, but who were suddenly taken away by events that he had no control over. That was the crux of the matter. The man was a person who needed something to control, and as the entire situation had been thrust upon him, it was beyond his ability to change. He had had a love back then, even children of his own though the circumstances were hardly optimal.

Sometimes he would weep at the unfairness of it all. He had been one to make the best of things, had been rather proud of being able to handle any problem with grace. 'Grace', he thought with a huff, 'Lord grant me the grace to last another day, or at least until . . .' He looked over at the other occupant of the rude shelter, who slept with the assurance of one who had never known any different, and didn't understand how fraught with peril their existence was.

She was a young child. By human reckoning, almost five years old though this planet had a different rotational orbit around their star, and it had barely completed two orbits – for all the change it made in the climate. The refugees from the destruction of Earth had fled here precisely because it was so inhospitable – barely sustaining life. It was hoped that the Xindi would never find the colony; but that had been a faint hope at best, and thirty-some years ago by his calculation, their colony had been found and 'dealt with'.

He had been 'on a camping trip' that day, with his best friends and their children – Hoshi had stayed at home as sleeping outdoors had little appeal, but T'Pol had been willing to venture with Trip, with the three teenagers in their families. He tried not to think about the little ones who had been at home with their mother, but failed. It was a rational thought to think that it was best – the six of them barely survived the next year for lack of food, and more mouths to feed would have been impossible. Impossible. The whole situation was impossible.

He had kept a brave face back then – had to else he would have collapsed in grief. Had always been proud of being able to handle any situation as a master of tactics and strategy. He was in control, always 'in control'. He had been the one to lead their small band to safety, to find shelter, sustenance, and to hold them together when even T'Pol seemed ready to give up. A hard taskmaster.

And now at the end of all things, he wondered what he had been doing . . . everyone was gone now, save himself and this precious child . . . he had made the stuffed animal, the 'Peter Cottontail' that she clutched in her slumber from the hides of the small furry creatures that he hunted almost exclusively. . .

It was then that he decided a choice that he had thought of sometime before as he didn't her to want to have one moment of despair or terror in her life, and the blame of it all would be on his soul. The plant with the red-yellow speckled berries was poisonous – so much so that only two had killed one of their group many years before – and he had warned the child never to eat anything unless he had personally approved. He pulled out the small container that he had fashioned from that same pelt. It held a small quantity of the 'death' berries, as he thought of them.

Crushing the material into a paste, he made sure that the texture was consistent – it wouldn't do to have the 'little one' not be able to swallow – and he sighed as he thought of his legacy. As she was his great-granddaughter and granddaughter – the genetic faults of his being were magnified many times over. Blind and unable to walk, she nonetheless would hum with delight when he held her, cuddling, as he sang all the bits of song that he remembered . . .

When the 'last meal' was ready, he gently woke her – and measured out a bit – the rest he would swallow, laying his arm across her sleeping – never to wake form. She ate the mess without reservation; he was, after all, always warm, loving, and she knew no other love. He did not weep for her sake, and thought of green fields, roses, and even vast deep oceans on a planet that no longer existed.

XXXXX

Over five hundred Earth years later (if there had been an Earth) –

Kerm, senior exo-biologist of the expedition to the planet where the hated and extinct humans had taken shelter, was confused. This was not a common sight, as many of the junior scientists he oversaw, but more often 'overruled' would attest. He had been of the opinion that nothing of value would be gained traveling to the last miserable outpost of the despicable creatures, and thought probably correctly that he had been tasked with this thankless job as a punishment. His superiors wanted to know more about the beings who were thought to have such deadly designs on his culture, just in case other like-minded creatures 'came calling' . . .

It was only after they had surveyed the main settlement – rather boring in his estimation – and had taken a small craft across a vast plain that he spotted an odd construction – which might have not been noticed at all, save for a minor geological shift. He landed and exited the craft – spotting a small shelter, circular in shape. The climate on this accursed planet was dry, so dry that biological matter merely desiccated, rather than rotted. He entered the dwelling (had to bend down to do so) and found a mean sort of bed, merely a mat – wherein a small creature was lying, protected even in death by a humanoid figure. And in the small one's arms was what his grandchildren called 'a softie' – a simulation of a beloved mammal. And it dawned on the severely-tempered scientist, that despite the declared differences, all life was pretty much the same . . .

OOOOO

A.N. Sorry for the less than satisfying ending, but then that is life . . . the inspiration for this story was a story I heard about years ago (sorry I don't have the citation) about the remains of the Greenland Viking colony – all that remained was an old man and a very young girl. They managed to hang on until the beginning of the 1400's if I remember correctly . . . in the same century as when Columbus 'discovered' America. Despite the increasing failure of the Greenland colony, the settlers kept to their 'Viking lifestyle' and refused to mingle with the native culture. It was their doom.

OOOOO


End file.
